


History's Blade

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First legit case fic (not an AU, look at that!) Summary: Sam and Dean take on a dragon. 'cause I couldn't resist. Plenty of my usual doses of hurt!Sam and angst. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History's Blade

“Dude. A dragon.”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“Dude.” Dean repeated. He looked over at Sam, waggling his eyebrows. “A dragon.”

“Actually a wyrm,” Sam corrected. For his comment, he got a punch in the shoulder.

“I’ll make you eat a worm if you don’t lighten up. C’mon, Sammy, how awesome is this?”

“A little awesome,” Sam finally admitted.

Dean nodded happily. “Yeah, it’s friggin’ awesome. How many hunters out there can say they took on a dragon, huh?”

“Quite a few, actually, back in the 1300s . . .”

“Sam, shut up. Don’t ruin this for me.” Dean followed the drumbeat with his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Please tell me this is gonna be research light, now that we have our weapons and you got the background.”

Dean saw Sam grimace as the sun flashed out from behind the trees. He tossed over a pair of sunglasses. Sam murmured thanks and then sighed. “I guess, but we don’t really have a way to track it. Plus we should check in with the witness.”

“It’s gonna be like any other predator, Sam, not much research we’ll have to do on that. Looks like you’ll have to wait ’til next time to get your geekboy fix.”

“Whatever. I’m just saying, this probably isn’t completely straightforward.”

Dean put on sunglasses himself. They had the extra bonus of being able to examine Sam without his little brother realizing. Sam had been trying to drum up a little enthusiasm for the hunt, but Dean could see how he was mostly trying for Dean’s sake, nothing more. Their attempts to find their father had yielded nothing, and it was wearing down both of them.

“Have we ever been to Oregon on a hunt before?” Sam asked suddenly.

“Pro’ly,” Dean said. “Didn’t really keep track. You were the kid who a list track of all the places you’d been, geek face.”

“That’s two times you’ve called me a geek in the last five minutes,” Sam said. “Get some new material.”

“Bite me.”

“Real original.”

Dean came very close to sticking his tongue out at his brother, but managed to suppress the urge.

“Next exit,” Sam said. “Then turn right.”

“Sure.”

Dean tried to see what Sam was thinking, but the sunglasses masked most of his expression. “Poker players must have awful eyesight,” Dean said.

“Uh, random much?”

Dean tapped his own sunglasses. “They wear ‘em indoors, right? It’s gotta strain their eyes.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the top thing on their mind when they’re playing for thousands of dollars.”

“I should wear glasses when I play poker,” Dean mused.

“Yeah, you telegraph everything with your eyes,” Sam said absently, opening up the map of Oregon.

He scoffed. “I do not.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth pulled up. “I’m just saying. Those last bets get placed, and you always claim it’s luck when I call your bluff.”

“Liar,” Dean denied vehemently, “if anyone telegraphs, it’s you, with those big emotional eyes of yours. I’m unreadable and mysterious.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Dean.”

Dean muttered to himself about stupid little brothers, pulling off at their exit with a little more speed than he should have.

The roads in the Northeast—always battling the winter ice—had too many potholes for Dean to avoid. He kept up a steady stream of curses as his baby fought the asphalt.

“Pull in here, there’s a cheap motel.”

“Perfect,” Dean grunted. Right as he turned, he saw a deep pothole directly in their path. He yelled out a curse at the awful bang, and Sam yelped in surprise.

“Dean, relax, okay? You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

“I’ll give you an ulcer,” Dean said, parking the car and getting out. “Grab us a room.”

He saw Sam’s eyes darken momentarily at the fake credit card Dean tossed over, but he kept his mouth shut, to Dean’s relief. It was one thing to break the law, it was another to deal with Sam’s recriminations.

“Room 8.” Sam tossed him one of the keys.

Dean hefted the bags and let Sam open the door for him. He blinked as he stepped inside. “Oh man. No way. Bunk beds?”

Sam grimaced. “Maybe this was supposed to be a room for kids?” he ventured.

“I call bottom bunk.” Dean rolled in before Sam could say another word, leaving his little brother looking with trepidation up at the rickety twin above Dean.

“Maybe they have other rooms?”

“You can go find out if you want.” Dean pretended to close his eyes in sleep until Sam headed out the door. Only then did he let himself really relax. Sam was a volcano waiting to explode, with everything with Dad. He would have to take his rest where he could. Dean gave it 18 hours before Sam brought it all up.

* * *

“It hasn’t even killed anyone, why are we here in the first place?” Sam asked.

“Called it,” Dean muttered. Sam opened his mouth to ask what Dean was talking about, but his brother continued—“because it could, Sam. Three separate reports of missing domestic animals. Next one could be someone’s kid.”

“Because everyone lets their kids wander around abandoned caves,” Sam said under his breath; Dean heard him and punched him in the shoulder. Sam kept himself from rubbing his arm. “Look, okay, let’s go talk to the witness, then we’ll see,” Sam tried to compromise.

“That’s fine.” Dean raised an eyebrow when Sam got into the driver’s seat, but didn’t verbalize any complaint. Sam shut off the music, in the hopes that it would give himself space to think about the case, but then Dean started humming.

“Really, Dean?” Sam avoided the pothole that had angered Dean the night before.

“You didn’t pick any music, so I’m making my own,” Dean said.

Sam flipped the radio back on, but turned it to some kind of hip hop music, relishing the appalled look on Dean’s face.

“You are never driving again,” he declared.

“We’ll see about that,” Sam said.

The address led them to a derelict homestead out of a Lovecraft story. Sam made a face as he levered himself out of the car, noting the same expression on Dean’s face.

“You’re sure this is the place?”

“Positive.” Sam was feeling less and less eager about the entire thing. “You get to ring the doorbell.”

Dean cast him a dirty look, but strode up onto the porch and knocked with the same bravado he used with everything. Sam followed closely, keeping one hand behind his back for easy access to his gun.

“Yes?” A harmless looking old man came out onto the porch.

Dean jumped right in. “I’m Hetfield and this is Ulrich. I know this may sound silly, but we’re bigfoot hunters. We heard about the disappearances, and were wondering if you could tell us all you know.” A smart diversion on Dean’s part, so the man wasn’t suspicious about their questions.

The man drew himself up. “This wasn’t some hairy sasquatch,” he said heatedly. “You boys obviously didn’t do your research. I saw a giant lizard, ‘bout as big as this house here. Bigfoot indeed.”

“Did it attack you?” Sam asked.

The man shook his head. “Didn’t even look at me. Just kinda slithered off.”

“And have other people seen it?” he added.

For his trouble, he got a sharp glance and the man’s face became closed off. “You two best be going on to find your bigfoot.”

The door closed with a snap, and for the second time Dean punched him in the arm.

“Ow!”

“Way to go, genius. Next time I take the lead on interviewing, huh?”

Sam scowled. “I was just asking him—“

“Yeah, yeah, you were ‘just,’” Dean mocked. “Let’s get out of here. We have a dragon to catch.”

Annoyed, and yeah, a little embarrassed at screwing up the interview, Sam followed him back into the Impala, wincing when Dean turned on his music as loud as it could go. This was going to be a long hunt.

* * *

Sure, Dean missed Sam for the three years he’d been gone, but there may have been a little truth to that ‘absence makes the heart fonder’ crap. He had forgotten how Sam could get on his nerves, complicate the simplest hunt, and somehow still act like he was the one in the right while doing so.

“We already tried this direction, and the caves are supposed to be more to the west,” Sam piped up.

Dean grit his teeth. “For the fourth time, Sam, I’ve seen some signs for this way.”

“Yeah, sure, ‘signs.’”

Dean could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes. He was sorely tempted to tie the kid to a tree and teach him to question Dean’s outdoor skills, but he couldn’t in the middle of a hunt.

“Ow!”

“Sam, what on earth?” Dean whirled around to find Sam sucking on his finger.

“Thorn,” Sam mumbled.

“I knew you had gone soft, but this is taking it a bit far,” Dean said.

Sam stiffened. “I’m not soft,” he said. “It’s only been three years, Dean.”

“Three years sitting in a classroom, Sam, not roughing it out in the wilderness,” Dean said scathingly.

Pricked finger forgotten, Sam drew himself up. “Yeah? And what were you doing, Dean, huh? Sitting in bars most nights? How many times did you call me at Stanford, drunk off your—“

Dean found himself in Sam’s face, twisting his brother’s shirt in his fist and cutting Sam off. He breathed out, once, twice, three times before he allowed himself to speak. “That was low, Sammy,” his voice was as cold as he could make it, and there was no affection in the nickname. “And you may think you know everything, but you weren’t here, you left me behind. You were always the worst hunter in the family, and so I don’t care what you’re trying to pull right now, you follow my lead.”

There was a war in Sam’s eyes between fury and guilt. Dean didn’t give him time to say anything, twisting away and picking up the trail again. He waited, shoulders tense, for Sam to throw some verbal barb after him, but there was only the sound of footsteps on drying leaves following him. Dean swallowed his own guilt and carried on.

“Here,” he grunted. He crouched, scraping aside leaves to see the shiny scale that had caught his eye. “We’re in the right place.”

“Will we wait out here for it?” Sam’s tone was entirely neutral. Dean dared to glance at him quickly, but Sam looked impassive.

“We can start off with that. If we’re lucky, it’ll venture out for lunch.”

Sam nodded and crouched, settling comfortably against a tree. Dean tried to do the same. If only his conscience could be as settled.

* * *

Sam studiously ignored the mosquito sucking his blood near his ankle. If he slapped it away, it would be one more sign that he was out of touch with being outdoors and hunting in Dean’s eyes . . . as stupid as it sounded.

The mosquito buzzed off, satisfied with its meal of Sam’s blood. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Sam didn’t look at Dean. He had tried to remain stoic in the face of Dean’s accusations, but the hollow feeling in his gut let him know that if he tried to talk at all, he might break down or start crying.

“Here.”

Sam caught the jerky tossed his way. He murmured a quiet ‘thanks,’ and turned back to keep watch. Sam knew there would be no apologies about their fight unless he initiated it, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to do that.

When it came down to it, Dean was right: Sam had gotten soft, he had left Dean, and he had no right questioning his brother’s skills in hunting. It hurt, though, in the place where only a few months ago Sam’s pride in his abilities had been scraped raw and open; not a potential lawyer, not a potential husband, just a hunter, and if he was awful at that, what did he have?

“Sam,” Dean hissed. Sam blinked, cursing himself—through the dark trees, a shape moved sinuously. Of course he would be friggin’ daydreaming when the wyrm finally decided to show itself.

“Now?” he asked.

“It’s too clear,” Dean said, referring to the area around the wyrm itself. “Too much room for it to maneuver. We need to catch it—“

“—in the cave,” Sam finished, resigned. “So we follow?”

Dean nodded. Sam trailed after him, wincing as his noisy footsteps drowned out any whisper of sound Dean was making.

The wyrm didn’t seem to pay any attention to them, sliding on its belly through the trees. Sam watched in fascination as it used its small legs only for leverage against trees.

“Think these swords will do it?”

Sam looked at his brother, hefting the broadsword like a knight who had lost his armor. They had stolen the swords from a museum exhibit two cities over after they had learned about the hunt. Dean had been like a kid in a toy store.

“Far as I know,” Sam responded. His own sword felt unwieldy in his hand. “Sure we should follow it in?”

“That’s where the treasure is.” Dean grinned at him, and Sam could almost pretend that their argument was a bad nightmare.

Then he tripped, nearly stabbing himself with his own sword. Only Dean’s fast reflexes shoved him out of the way.

“Geez, Sam.” Sam thought that Dean sounded disgusted. He swallowed his embarrassment and rose, picking up his sword.

“There it goes,” he said.

“Let’s bag us a dragon.” Dean cast one more speculative look at Sam’s sword before darting off, the hunter in him taking charge and weaving through the trees.

As always, Sam could only try to keep up.

* * *

Sam’s discomfort was tangible in the way he looked around at the cave entrance. At any other lighter time, Dean would’ve grinned and made a joke, but things were too tight and bitter between the two of them at the moment. Instead, he let a sneer twist his mouth, ignoring how guilty it made him feel.

“C’mon, Sam, pick up the pace.”

“I’m keeping up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean flicked on his headlamp. “Try not to get lost.”

Sam muttered something under his breath, and Dean ignored him. No more fights, he had to focus on the hunt.

The wyrm had left grooves in the cave walls from its claws. It was easy enough, following that and the scattered scales.

The air became hotter, and there was less air flow. Dean slowed down, hugging one side of the wall and gesturing Sam to do the same. The cavern they came to wasn’t quite what Dean had hoped—no mounds of treasure, no fire from the dragon, just the wyrm curled around . . . eggs.

“Oh,” Sam breathed.

“Ready?” Dean asked, nearly sub-vocally.

“Alright.”

Dean readied himself to run in. Sam darted past him without any warning.

“Sam!” Dean managed to make his surprised cry a whisper, but it didn’t make a difference—Sam charged in, heading straight for the wyrm. Dean was two steps behind him, but those steps felt like a mile as the wyrm’s head turned and it looked directly at Sam. It didn’t breathe fire, but its mouth was full of wickedly sharp teeth. Dean yelled out an inarticulate warning as it lunged for Sam.

Sam managed to dive out of the way before the wyrm could take a bite out of him. Dean made it to the wyrm’s other end, and slashed his sword through the beast’s tail. Its roar shook the cave. It twisted, seeking Dean, only for Sam to go for its throat.

Dean ducked as the remnants of the wyrm’s bloody tail nearly hit him when it turned back for Sam. Dean didn’t even have a chance to cry out as the wyrm’s claws grasped Sam like a hand. Both of them had underestimated the smaller appendages’ uses.

Sam was drawn near to the monster’s face. Dean’s heart was in his throat, sword was in his hand, and he was too far away—

Just as the wyrm went to bite Sam, Dean caught sight of Sam’s sword. Sam sliced through the wyrm’s throat like butter. The beast writhed in its death throes and trampled its eggs, dark blood gushing out on the cave floor; Sam was tossed like a rag doll into the far wall of the cave. Dean yelled out his brother’s name.

And the wyrm toppled over with an awful, wall-shaking crash.

“Sam!” he cried again.

His little brother twisted around and got to his feet. Dean’s fear switched to anger so fast that he felt like he got whiplash.

“What kind of idiot move was that?” he snarled, even as he moved towards Sam. “What were you thinking?”

A rumble made him pause. Out in open air, he would have dismissed it as an oncoming thunderstorm.

In a cave, it was far more insidious.

“Dean!”

“Sam!”

Dean was forced to dodge to the left, into the cave wall as the ceiling began to crumble. Sam was too far away; Dean could only watch as he scrambled into deeper recesses in the cave. Rocks fell, and for a brief moment Dean’s mild claustrophobia kicked in, but then the dust cleared.

And Dean was alone with a dead dragon and no brother.

* * *

Sam woke up in the dark, alone, and confused. There had only been a handful of times that had been true in his life—Dean had always made sure he was there, ready with a joke and a grin when Sam woke up.

He wondered how many times Dean had woken up alone while Sam was at Stanford.

“D-dean?”

His voice sounded strangely muted. Sam coughed and tried again.

“Dean?”

Sam tried to lever himself up, groaning at the pull on sore muscles from the wyrm throwing him into the wall. His side ached fiercely; Sam ignored it.

The complete dark was overwhelming—Sam couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed. His wandering fingers found a strap that went to his headlamp. The sharp edge of broken glass met his fingertips, and he pulled his hand back with a curse. Slowly, he stood.

“Dean!” he bellowed. There was no response.

He stumbled forward, finding one solid wall of stone. Orienting himself, he walked ten steps before running into the opposite wall. When he turned 90 degrees, he followed the wall farther and farther without finding another barrier. Sam swallowed and turned back, following until he hit rock again—this time not a smooth wall, but a jumble of stones.

The thick blackness didn’t change, even when Sam opened and closed his eyes. Sam sighed, the sound hollow in his ears.

“It’s okay. I’ll break through, Dean’ll be working from his side, it’s fine,” he said to himself. His voice seemed to mock him with how it fell flat.

It became easy to lose track of time. Sam’s fingers became raw as he pulled away rock after rock, probably bleeding, though he couldn’t really tell.

Unwanted words kept floating up in Sam’s head. Hopeless. Weak. Alone. To drown them out, he started talking aloud, running through laws he’d memorized in some of his pre-law classes. When that started to sound too insane—his voice reciting alone in the dark like a ghost—he moved on to humming songs, the classic rock that was essentially the soundtrack of his childhood.

He was getting tired rather easily. Sam slouched against the cave wall, unsure why he felt dizzy. Maybe from the constant, oppressive darkness.

Also, his heart was beating too fast. Sam slid down to the ground, resting his head against the rough wet stone.

In the midst of the awful silence, Sam thought he heard a scraping sound. He froze, listening. When it came again, his hope flared up.

“Dean!” he cried out.

He heard his name in response. Sam clambered up, falling heavily against the pile of stones. His mad scramble to pull them away tore at his aching body, but he didn’t care. There was hope, he could get out.

Dean was saying something, but it was white noise in Sam’s ears. A rock rolled out of the way, then a small cascade. Sam’s breath caught in his throat as a saw the briefest flash of light.

“Sam? Sammy, can you hear me?”

“Dean,” Sam gasped. “Dean, get me out.”

A few more rocks fell away, and Dean’s flashlight shone directly into Sam’s face. He squinted, the light sending shards of pain through his head. Sam stumbled, the sudden relief at the light making him feel even more weak than he already did.

“I’ve gotta tunnel going here, bro. Just give me a second to widen it out so you can crawl through.”

Sam could hear the fear in Dean’s voice. He only knew one surefire way to get rid of that. “Good thing it’s not you, or you wouldn’t be able to fit,” he joked, voice a little shaky.

“What, you calling me fat?”

“All those burgers . . . iff the shoe fits,” Sam said.

“Says the guy with freakishly large feet.” Dean’s dirty face poked through. He blinked owlishly at Sam. “Care to join me on this side?” He reached out.

Sam took Dean’s outstretched hand, allowing it to tug him forward. Everything seemed weighted, slow. Rocks scraped against him as he was pulled through, and the ones on top made ominous shifting noises.

“That’s it, man. You scared the crap out of me.”

Sam found himself pulled free of the dark, and pulled to his feet. He swayed.

“I don’t . . . I don’t feel so good,” he admitted.

Had Dean actually gotten him out? Sam had probably hallucinated his brother, he thought, as the darkness surrounded him once again.

* * *

It had taken over an hour to make contact with Sam. That entire hour, Dean had worse-case scenarios running through his mind—Sam crushed to death, Sam with broken bones, Sam lost forever.

Sam’s pale face and wide eyes was the best sight Dean had ever seen in his life. He pulled his brother to safety through the rocks. The adrenaline in his system finally began to taper off, leaving him shaky in relief.

When Sam stood, Dean thought all his troubles were over.

And then Sam stumbled, mumbling something before collapsing.

Dean caught him—sort of. Sam ended up sprawled on the ground. Dean swept over him, up and down with his headlamp. The open flap of Sam’s jacket was stained dark, and Dean’s adrenaline kicked in again.

Upon pulling up Sam’s shirt, Dean cursed under his breath. The wounds weren’t deep, but Sam’s flank had three parallel claw marks steadily leaking blood. A quick assessment told Dean that Sam was in an early enough stage of blood loss that he could treat it; he needed to get Sam out of that cave and back to the motel.

“You didn’t even put any pressure on these,” he muttered. Sam groaned a little and twisted as Dean folded over his jacket and pressed down on Sam’s side. “Wake up, Sammy.”

“Mmm.”

Dean reached up with his free hand and carded his fingers through Sam’s dusty hair. “Dude, wake up. Don’t make me slap you.”

“Deee,” Sam mumbled. He blinked at Dean.

“Yeah, buddy, that’s it. I’m gonna need you to stand up for me, can you do that?”

Dean hated putting Sam in pain, but it had to be done. Slowly, he managed to get Sam up.

“Dragon,” Sam mumbled.

“Don’t you mean wyrm?” Dean puffed. “You killed it, remember?”

“Oh.”

It became a messy and slow three-legged-race, but it was enough to get Sam out of the cave. Dean let Sam take a brief moment to catch his breath.

“Can you make it to the car, Sam?”

Sam’s head bobbed up and down. “Uh huh.”

Dean checked that his makeshift pressure bandage was tight enough to survive the journey. He looped an arm around Sam’s waist, taking on what felt like half of his weight.

“Dude, lay off the candy,” he groaned.

“Y-you’re the one w—ugh—with the sweet tooth,” Sam managed to get out.

“Save your breath, moron.”

It took far longer than Dean was comfortable with to get to the Impala. Sam was pale and clammy by the time they made it.

“Backseat, feet up, you know the drill, Sam,” Dean ordered.

Sam shook his head, bangs sticking to his forehead. “Don’ wan’ to sit there.”

“Sam—“

Despite the pain and blood loss, Sam managed to give him a glare. “No.”

“Stubborn toddler,” Dean muttered under his breath. He folded Sam into the car, one hand on his head cop-style to keep the dolt from braining himself. Once he was in the driver’s seat, Sam slouched sideways onto him, propping his feet up in the corner of the dash.

“See, feet up,” Sam mumbled.

Dean couldn’t help but laugh.

Despite Sam being a little bitch about the whole thing, he managed to get his brother to the motel, stuff some meds down his throat, get him stitched up, and drinking fluids in record time. Even if he was muttering under his breath about little brothers being stupid the entire time.

* * *

Losing blood sucked. Sam told Dean so. Dean grunted, which was weird. He told Dean that too.

“Dude, you’re high on pain meds. Don’t you dare get loopy enough to hop out of bed and mess up my stitch work,” his brother said to him sternly.

Sam nodded obediently. He was good at listening. Except for with John. Never listened to him.

“Hell yeah, you didn’t,” Dean muttered.

Oh, Sam had said that aloud. He stared at Dean. Unless Dean had gotten mind reading powers. “Do you have mind reading powers?” he asked.

“Man, you are so susceptible to drugs,” Dean said. “It’s a good thing you were never roofied.”

“Why would I go on the roof?” Sam frowned.

“Never mind.”

Sam’s mind skipped backwards, thinking about what Dean had said. “Didn’t listen to Dad. Listened to you, though.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, right. Like tonight, running in there against everything we’ve ever been trained.”

Sam didn’t like how angry Dean was. He cringed, feeling his stitches tug uncomfortably. “Didn’t mean to get hurt. Wanted to, um, wanted . . .” he trailed off, not sure what he was going to say.

“Go to sleep, druggie. You can make sense in the morning.”

Sam reached out quickly, meaning to grab Dean’s shoulder. He got his ear instead, prompting a yelp.

“Sorry!” Sam adjusted his grip to Dean’s forearm. “Deeeean.”

“Sammy, c’mon, go to bed.” Dean’s voice didn’t sound too mad anymore, but Sam couldn’t tell.

“No, Dean, you need to, need to listen. ’S important,” Sam insisted.

“Alright, say your piece.” Dean was humoring him, Sam thought.

“Not . . . not meaning to do something stupid. Had to prove I wasn’t, um, wasn’t soft. Bad hunter. I know I’m a bad hunter, that’s why I left,” Sam said. He swallowed, Jess’s face rising up in his mind. “Tried to be something, something better. But I—I messed that up. So I’m a hunter again. That’s . . . that’s it, so if I’m not good at that, then what good am I?”

“Hey, hey.” Dean’s thumb swiped under his eye, and it felt strangely warm and wet. “Sammy, c’mon, it’s just the drugs making you upset. You aren’t useless, y’know. Who else will laugh at my jokes?”

“I don’t laugh at your jokes,” Sam mumbled.

“Sure you do. I see those smiles you always hide by looking away or putting your hand over your mouth.”

Sam absently brought up his hand to his mouth. Did he do that?

“Sam.” A strong hand threaded through his hair, nudging his head until he was looking at Dean again. “I want you to listen to me, ‘cause I’m not repeating.”

Sam’s head bobbed up and down. “Listening.”

Dean swallowed, eyes darting away. “You aren’t useless. You’ve been out of the game for a while, sure, but you’re one of the best hunters out there. I just have a little more practice than you. And you aren’t weak. Got it?”

Sam nodded.

Dean blew out a breath. “Okay, this soap opera’s over for now. Let’s get some rest.”

He stood, leaving Sam watching him with heavy eyes.

And then he turned off the lamp.

Sam didn’t realize he was screaming until the lamp turned back on and Dean covered his mouth with one palm.

“Whoa, whoa, Sammy, what’s wrong?”

“Dark, dark, don’t wanna die here, Dean, get me out,” Sam babbled.

“Sorry, kiddo, didn’t even think about it,” Dean apologized. He got up, and Sam panicked, trying to reach after him, only to fall back with a groan as the wounds in his side pulled.

“Just turning on the bathroom light,” Dean told him.

The dim light was enough that Sam could see Dean as he flopped onto his own bed. “Dean,” he murmured.

“Yeah, Sam?”

Sam wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say—sleep was weighting him down, and Sam wasn’t strong enough to fight it anymore. He repeated his brother’s name helplessly.

The last thing he heard was a fond “I got it, Sammy.”


End file.
